


A Redcoat and a Detective

by Luthienberen



Category: Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV)
Genre: M/M, Military Kink, Military Uniforms, POV First Person, POV Sherlock Holmes, Romance, Sex, minor reference to battle surgery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:26:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23250154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthienberen/pseuds/Luthienberen
Summary: When Watson dons his old Army uniform Holmes is quite overcome. Since Watson has hidden such a treasure from him, Holmes deems it only fair that he ensures that everything is in order with Watson’s uniform. Watson can’t help but agree.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 16
Kudos: 54
Collections: Victorian Holmes Prompt Box





	A Redcoat and a Detective

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mightymads](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightymads/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [Victorian221bPromptBox](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Victorian221bPromptBox) collection. 



> Written for [mightymads’](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightymads/pseuds/mightymads) prompt over at the Victorian Holmes Prompt box:   
> **Prompt:** Granada or Lenfilm: Holmes has a raging military kink after seeing Watson in uniform.
> 
> # I do imagine David Burke here as Watson, roughly setting it after [The Crooked Man](https://www.arthur-conan-doyle.com/index.php/The_Crooked_Man_\(TV_episode_1984\)), as I felt the setting quite appropriate as the episode showcases Watson’s still intact loyalty to the army he served so shortly in as an Assistant Surgeon.
> 
> # Why yes, that is a Mills & Boon type of title…

Our living room would soon resemble a smoking club if I persisted in smoking my pipe. Alas, while such a notion would not normally have stayed my hand from refilling up my brooding pipe from the Persian slipper, I was reluctant to inconvenience Watson.

My faithful companion and lover had been aflame after our most recent case that had been resolved only yesterday. He was still humming one of those ridiculous jolly tunes he recalled from his stint in India and the Afghan. On a Tuesday my Watson had a tendency to divert his evening at his club, earning a respite from one Sherlock Holmes.

As much as we loved each other I would be the first to admit I wasn’t the easiest of partners, so Watson wisely retreated once a week to his club where he maintained links to the medical profession on those occasions he still had the time to practice. Fortunately, my Watson did not abandon me long for medical pursuits and could usually be prevailed upon to accompany me on a case promising oddities of some type.

I too practised a retreat, preferring on a Friday to spend the afternoon, (when Watson was free from practice and able to waft about our Baker Street lodgings), trying my hand at the docks for information clad as a Sea Captain, or in one of many holes tailoring a disguise – a French woman of fashion perhaps, or Lord of a stately manor, or a plumber, and so on.

This Tuesday however, Watson was thrumming with fond – or at least persistent – memories of his service and had vanished upstairs to fetch his papers and uniform.

He had been gone two hours and I had fallen into my habit of smoking and brooding on various topics, such as whether there was a new method for creating a better and more reliable “invisible ink”.

It wasn’t until I sprang up to reach for the Persian slipper that I had realised my predicament. Thus, with haste I flung open the window, snuffed out my pipe and waited impatiently for my Watson for that was his step on the stair.

The clatter of carriages on the road were distant as this section of London quieted for the night. Scents of food cooking distracted me and my thoughts meandered when suddenly Watson eased open our sitting room door and strolled in.

I never put much stock in those distasteful gothic novels where young women were stricken silent by the sight of their romantic interest, but I confess I must retract my misgivings. The scientist in me has been proven wrong for Watson had donned his military uniform.

The sight was a vision of absolute masculinity and I would gamble that no solider looked better than Doctor John Watson did in his redcoat.

His broad shoulders cut quite an imposing figure in the redcoat with the white belt stark upon the scarlet. The gold buttons had been highly polished and twinkled like stars on Watson’s breast. His collar and cuffs were black, denoting his rank in gold braid.

Black trousers with a scarlet line on the outer edge of each trouser leg clung to his frame and led to shiny black shoes.

The cap on his head was memorising. The expression under the peak was stern, yet with a joyful twinkle in those marvellous blue eyes that enraptured me more than I cared to say out loud.

All in all I was stricken with an abrupt startlement at Watson’s appearance. Authority bled from my Watson and in my mind’s eye I could see him among the men of the _66 th Regiment_ as they prepared for battle in Maiwand.

He was only missing his sword and doctor’s bag.

“Holmes? Are you well? You are perspiring.”

Watson’s concerned voice broke through my dazed appreciation. Espying the worried frown and the quick step Watson took forwards I made up my mind. I simply couldn’t allow this opportunity to go to waste. It was imperative that I feel how Watson’s uniform felt in close quarters – for scientific purposes naturally.

Therefore, I put aside my mercifully snuffed pipe on the table by the window and shut the incriminating glass, drawing the curtains, which would entice no comment for evening had closed in as I pondered and waited for Watson.

“Holmes?”

Watson’s confusion was amusing, but it was not the emotion I wished to elicit this evening.

Inhaling deeply I released a shuddering breath and did my best to conquer the excited tremor tripping through my limbs. In a bound over the couch I stood before a surprised Watson, whose amazed expression transformed when I plucked his cap from his head.

Running fingers over the black and gold peak I gazed languidly at my lover.

“A remarkable transformation Watson. It is too bad of you to conceal such a delightful combination from me until now.”

Watson tilted his head, dark blond hair catching the lamp light and fire, making him impossibly handsomer.

My mouth was dry so I swallowed and persevered, determined to reach my goal. Deliberately lifting his cap to my nose I sniffed and peering into Watson’s eyes I murmured, “Since you have kept your uniform secret I feel it is only fair that you allow me to ensure that everything is in its proper order.”

On that note I brushed the back of Watson’s cap on my friend’s cheek, then discarded the cap on a suitably close armchair.

Watson is much more intelligent and quicker off the mark than he permits the general reading public to glean, so he understood my true meaning instantly.

He straightened and stepped forward, donning an aura of command that was not merely show. No, I shivered at the mantle of authority that now cloaked my Watson. In the firm lips framed by a well-groomed moustache was a surgeon’s faith in their own abilities. In the straight line of his shoulders was the ease of which Watson portrayed calmness and resolution to the medical staff he must have worked aside, and to the men who were brought to his tent.

Those dear hands that played a tune on my body sweeter than any I eked out on my violin now caught me and drew me close. Despite our height difference, when Watson cocked his head to look up at me there was no indication of this disparity. Instead, Watson projected a coolness and assuredness that had my blood racing.

Watson’s grasp on my arms tightened pleasurably and his voice was rich like honey.

“As former Assistant Surgeon to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers and then the 66th Regiment I cannot allow my honour to be besmirched, and must make amends.”

That grin was _not_ a gentleman’s grin I would like to add to Watson’s inevitable record of this affair, (to be penned in code of course and kept in Cox and Co.). However, before I could ruminate on the wicked smile sorely mismatched by the innocent gleam in my dear Watson’s eyes, my friend and lover continued.

“So, please let me rectify my dreadful treatment of you, by assuring you that this former Assistant Surgeon is at your service.”

He released me and smoothed out his expression into a composed one, but with that irresistible boyish twinkle that chipped at my resistance.

How could any man who fancied a redcoat resist such clear invitation? Yet, now my busy mind had picked up on a fact my befuddled senses had initially missed (for, as much as Watson mostly conceals my unsuccessful ventures, I do not always catch everything).

Therefore, I touched the epaulettes on his shoulders to stroke the fabric and trace the markings. Watson did not even tremble though a muscle twitched in his cheek as he tightened his jaw ever so slightly.

Emboldened, I asked the question that had me curious as a starling when faced a by a shiny object for its nest.

“Considering our recent case it is refreshing and comforting to know that this former Assistant Surgeon will make amends. However, Watson, you do spark my curiosity.”

I glared at the merry laugh threatening the composed figure of my friend who rapidly curtailed his reaction with a brief apologetic smile.

“As I was saying Watson…I do believe that the rank of Assistant Surgeon was no longer extant when you joined the _Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers_ and then the _66 th Regiment_? Surely your rank ought to have been _Surgeon?_ ”

That intractable smile I loved so much, teased Watson’s lips and his bright blue eyes shimmered with mirth, but I fancy I caught a flash of sorrow and horror there that had me quite frothing to dissect this delectable mystery.

However, despite Watson’s jottings telling of my never ending thirst to discover the truth once on the scent like some sort of eager bloodhound, my winsome doctor is astutely laying a false trail to lead the unobservant reader astray. I know when to halt my pursuit.

If Watson wished to share his private memories of this evidently painful memory with me then he would – I had not forgotten my careless blundering in deducting the truth about his brother.

Here then, was a mystery and a tale to be told. Yet my esteemed doctor was not ready to share quite yet the, perhaps sordid, details. All I could do was ensure that he knew I could never love him less and that I would wait until one day we were sitting by the fire, armed with tea and biscuits, whereupon Watson would regale me of how he was an _Assistant Surgeon_ and not a _Surgeon_ in Her Majesty’s Army.

So, I splayed my hands over those gleaming metal buttons that decorated his redcoat, feeling the rise and fall of his chest, and smiled at my brooding solider surgeon.

“A mystery for me to solve instead, Watson? Maybe later, when the weather is fairer? I am certain that whatever storm may erupt we can sail through together – just like those couples in those terrible yellow backed novels you read.”

After momentarily surprise Watson flung his head back and laughed. The muscles under my palms leapt, the metal buttons and fabric rubbing against my skin, enticing goose-bumps to break out over my skin.

Yet quickly Watson’s laughter faded and breathing heavily he once more gazed upon me. I was entranced by how his tears transformed his blue eyes to clear wells where all emotion was frankly displayed without restraint.

My spirits lifted at the sight and at his rigorous merriment, especially when calloused hands covered my own.

“You are most precious Holmes and quite as bewitching as any romantic love I have read in one of my _delightful_ yellow-backed novels. Now,” those hands tightened their grip and I relished the strength that promised a match for my own. “I do believe you were interested in testing my uniform?”

The low drop in tone plucked at my stomach, causing lust to stir. My blood ran hotter as I happily understood that my gentleman had become a gentleman rogue for a brief while.

It was a set of circumstances I was intent on pursuing for I had much to catalogue still of Watson’s old uniform. Therefore, I answered not with words but by deed.

Running my hands down over those gold buttons I began to undo the golden metal. Watson watched me avidly, chest rising and falling steadily but blue eyes growing gradually darker as I revealed his shirt. He had donned a simple white affair which attractively promised a broad chest under its stainless fabric.

Hastily I undid his white belt and gently threw it over to the nearby armchair where his cap already resided. My tidy doctor made a soft noise of protest, but I distracted him before a lecture on proper room keeping sallied forth. The only lecture I yearned for now was how dextrous an _Assistant Surgeon_ ’s hands were, and how composed such a man was, once bereft of their uniform.

Praising the hours I spent on measuring out samples in my chemical analysis as well as in fencing, I utilised their flexibility in undoing Watson’s cravat and exposing that wonderfully powerful neck.

“Goodness Sherlock.”

Ah! When we reverted to our first names it was a sign that Watson was relaxing from the strict rules of society, heralding a delightful time, whether it be carnal, romantic or simply spending hours in each other’s company.

Watson rested his hands on my shoulders, fingers curled over as he looked up into my eyes. The weight of his hands was solid, grounding my mind which forever flew through the skies, picking out patterns, tracing them to their source and discarding if found to be wanting. The noise from outside faded while the cackle of the fire dimmed as did the light in the room.

A blessed hush fell where my mind became not still, but moored by my personal dock: John Watson, doctor and solider, my cryptic _Assistant Surgeon_ and the best man I have ever met and could call friend…and who returned the honour upon this occasionally melancholy, frequently energetic and enthusiastic consulting detective.

A sigh flowed from me as this hush and freedom sank into my bones and blood and soul.

My good John understood and grinned like a rake, though rather overdone for John couldn’t be a rake for more than a minute ere apologising for his behaviour. This from a so-called ladies’ man! What a source of amusement that is for me on a many a long night spent tailing a suspect in disguise. Certainly fends off the damp and cold of a London night.

His hands moved from my shoulders, trailing fire as they dragged with firm pressure over my back to rest on my hips.

“Well Holmes? Are we still cataloguing my uniform? In the Army one must be faster than this, particularly as an _Assistant Surgeon_.”

His hands squeezed and my belly tightened at the look cast my way: to my face, then with a face smouldering with passion (and I never realised those tawdry romance books were correct in such terrible epithets) his gaze fell to my groin.

I could not let such a brazen challenge stand. My spirit rose up to match my doctor’s hunger and with cool precision I deftly undid the buttons on those sinfully tight black trousers.

Watson hissed as I peeled back the black fabric. It slipped deliciously through my grasp, the stark red lines delineating each side a reminder of the blood my Watson had shed at Maiwand. Pushing the unpleasant reminder away, I quickly hustled Watson into stepping out of his trousers.

I fell to my knees and with a sniff had shed Watson of his polished black shoes. Handsome, but hindering for my purposes.

I rose and admired the vision before me: Watson clad in his redcoat with shirt exposed, with only his drawers and socks covering his lower half. A tantalising image.

Seeing the redcoat still clinging to Watson’s broad shoulders, with bare throat exposed and flashes of his chest was simply perfect. The outline of a rigid cock in Watson’s cotton drawers matched my own, which was agonisingly trapped.

A single eyebrow rose.

“You are overdressed Sherlock whilst I am still in my redcoat. Are there not more experiments to conduct?”

His hands settled once more on my hips making it difficult to think. So I let my actions speak once more for me as I stepped flush against Watson, burying my nose and mouth into the crook of his neck. The musky scent was exhilarating and had me heady with want.

His hardness strained against me, my own erection responding in kind. I knew I simply had to speed up affairs, for my personal rake frequently had to be guided upon the path of being a gentleman rake.

My voice was a murmur on heated skin. “It is vital for my calculations for your redcoat to remain. I must confirm how…dexterous you are with it on and how it effects your performance and mine when in close quarters to my flesh.”

The groan my Watson released was deeply pleasing and in an instant the sure grip on my hips had switched to pushing me away and turning me around.

“Undress Holmes.”

The order sang in my blood, anchoring me home and in a few swift movements I was attired only in my socks and clutching the same armchair where I had flung Watson’s white uniform belt and cap. The white leather stared accusingly at me from the pile it had been deposited in, but I ignored the accusatory clothing item, for Watson was abruptly flush over me. 

Dear me, the fabric of Watson’s red coat was rough pleasure on my overheated skin and quickened the pace of fiery song in my blood. The gold coloured buttons were cold where they touched and I shivered at the sharp contrast to the fire that burned through me. Hands, loving, yet as precise a surgeon – or assistant surgeon if one was particular – played over me, delving into places with swiftness and care of execution.

Slick heat and pressure had my toes curling, my cock rubbing the armchair nearly painfully. Only the rough glide of Watson’s drawers were a grounding counterpoint. That is, until they were removed – how cold was Watson’ absence! And how the world seemed to flicker back into focus until my anchor was returned, guiding me home so I could dock by John Watson.

A scandalous portion of naked flesh pressed against me from Watson’s exposed chest and his legs bracing mine. His redcoat now veiled me, as Watson shifted to ensure that when he moved the metal buttons did not rub my naked skin overly much. However, the opening flaps brushed my sides and I was glad not to be ticklish.

Such a minor consideration was my final coherent thought before Watson earned his title of a gentleman rake and brought matters to a swift and elegant conclusion.

_Heat and physical strength, hands that had cut into men: shorn through skin, blood and bone; hands that wielded a revolver for me or a walking stick, now clutched at me, holding me to my doctor who guided me through the waters of passion._

_An eager mouth kissing and nuzzling the back of my neck, nipping slightly, with the hairs of John’s moustache tickling my sensitive skin._

This was the Watson of the days of soldiering: youthful and vigorous, full of the lust for adventure in a foreign land and in the bloom of health. The only stutter was in how he minded his shoulder still, but I had no complaints.

My Assistant Surgeon was a man of the past and I desired this more experienced and nuanced counterpart: the one broken in Maiwand, but who recovered to forge a new life as a doctor and my fellow companion in all those peculiar goings-on perpetrated by men and women.

I panted heavily as my soldier gave no quarter. Desire thrummed through me, heightened by the love in every gesture Watson displayed. For though no quarter was granted, his love was blatant in how he secured me with his hands, how he allowed one hand to brush the pulse in my wrist or my neck, how he gained my attention with whispered words in my ear.

_All too much!_

Overwhelmed by the myriad of sensation and emotions, I was saved by Watson who with his usual timing executed without mercy his final military tattoo – not on the grounds of a far flung military courtyard, but upon the person of one very willing detective.

Pleasure crested and I was torn through the eddies of a magnificent tidal surge of _La petite mort_.

I drifted on those wonderful tides, exhausted yet content.

Eventually I returned on the current to my safe harbour and stirred to discover we were lying stretched out on the couch. We were clean for I employed a cat-like cleanliness reflected in my dear John, who possessed the habit of a good doctor and former solider.

I curled my tall frame so I could place my head on Watson’s shoulder. From there I observed John through narrowed slits. His face was still flushed from our activities, his blue eyes becoming clearer as the storm of desire receded. His moustache was in disarray and his dark blond hair was ruffled.

Completing this rakish picture was the fact that Watson was naked apart from his redcoat. Now this was a very interesting turn of events.

A wicked smile – quite out of place on John mind you – appeared.

“It seemed a shame to remove a garment that you were quite attached to – did I do wrong Sherlock?”

I snorted. “No John, you chose excellently. I shall make a detective of you yet.”

Watson laughed and shook his head. Then he was kissing me soundly and whispering into my ear.

“Sleep a while Sherlock. I shall keep watch until you awaken. I do believe I will require assistance in checking that all of my uniform is accounted for.”

Well, a friend and lover could hardly deny a call for aid. So, with more enthusiasm than normal I was obedient for once and allowed my tired body to take me to pleasant – and hopefully interesting – dreams. 

**Author's Note:**

> # _La petite mort_ means “little death” in French and since Holmes knows French I thought it suitable here.
> 
> # I tried my best to capture Sherlock Holmes’ perspective, but he is a tricky character to pin down, so I hope my efforts deliver some pleasure! 
> 
> # I have to thank **mightymads** for doing the hard work of researching uniforms and rank. I highly recommend the two posts mightymads pulled together over at the victorian221b dreamwidth community, links to entries as below:
> 
> [Watson’s Regiments](https://victorian221b.dreamwidth.org/32136.html)
> 
> [Ranks and Uniforms](https://victorian221b.dreamwidth.org/32631.html)
> 
> As there is some confusion over what rank Watson should be in comparison to what he says in the text…well, I have selected the choice of tea leaf where Watson is the unreliable narrator and whatever he says is suspect ;)
> 
> Simply my glass of tea!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Cover Art] for Luthienberen's 'A Redcoat and a Detective'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29024931) by [cupidford](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cupidford/pseuds/cupidford)




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